


easy they come, easy they go (jump off the train, ride off alone)

by cosmicwritings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, F/M, MJCU (Michelle Jones Cinematic Universe), Spoilers, Teenage Dorks, awkward teenage flirting, it's her world ! we're all just living in it, mj really saved us all huh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 09:49:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20207746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicwritings/pseuds/cosmicwritings
Summary: “I don’t really have much luck in getting close to people,” you say, because you’re thinking about your mother, your father, those lonely sixteen years of your life where you had no friends. You didn’t want friends, fine, you did your very best to scare them away – because you’re not going to be fake and sit around at sleepovers, talking about things you don’t care about, just so you had a partner to pair up with in class. You didn’t want friends, but no one really wanted to be your friend either, and – like, you get it, you’re weird. You’re not going to change that. You like that about yourself. But other kids don’t, so you’ve never gotten close to anyone because you didn’t want to, but also because no one ever really wanted to either. You take a deep breath. “So, I lied. I wasn’t watching you because I thought you were Spiderman.”or, a mj character study. spiderman: homecoming and spiderman: far from home compliant - contains spoilers !





	easy they come, easy they go (jump off the train, ride off alone)

**Author's Note:**

> i want to preface with this that i give zero shits about marvel these days except for spiderman, so i Still don't understand the blip which is why it's not mentioned in here at all. i'm also Aware that marvel is going to like. shoot holes in everything i write in this fic soon as we learn more about mj but also i don't care bc i've so many feelings and love for her that i just spouted 8k about it. whatever, i'll fight you, marvel. i would like to thank god for giving us mj, who's my favourite with her awkwardness and weirdness bc it's the teenage representation we deserve, finally a woman who gives us the Weird People Rights we deserve - i'd still die for u tho, peter, that's my boy too. if people like this!!! i want to another fic in this series with more about spideychelle!!! so let me know!!!
> 
> also i don't know how to write outside of second pov anymore. don't roast me
> 
> title from the archer by taylor swift bc i'm STILL obsessed with that song

_“My friends call me MJ.”_

There’s something terrifying and human about putting yourself out there like that. You don’t think you’ve ever had any friends until now, and it’s an odd feeling to invite people in. _Here, _you can call me a nickname that I’ve been referring to myself since I was a child, one that no one’s ever used until now. It’s for you. The name is for you, and now it’s for all these people sitting around this table, staring.

You liked the sound of MJ on your tongue. _Michelle_ was pretty, but it sounded formal and traditional and it’s – well, it’s not what you are, at all. MJ was something cooler, something that settled on your shoulders with more ease and made you smile. You’d taken it from that librarian assistant at the public library, when you were eight years old. You were there every day after third grade, since it was just next door to your school. You’d sit there in the corner, until it closed in the evening and you had to walk back home.

Every day, you’d place a stack of books on the counter you were barely tall enough to reach. Your hands would fidget with your library card as you handed it over. The librarian assistant was a college kid, who was working there for a part-time job, and he got used to seeing your face buried in a book. He didn’t ask questions about why an eight-year-old was spending so much time alone here. He just scanned your books and sometimes asked about the books you were reading.

“See you tomorrow, MJ,” he says once, after he’s handed back your library card and you tucked the books under your arm.

You pause at the doors, glancing back curiously. “MJ?”

“Michelle Jones, right?” he says, nodding at your library card, still clenched in your little fist.

You turn back towards the door and raise the hand that is holding your card. “See you tomorrow.”

You take the name and you prod at it back at home. Roll your tongue over the two syllables, liking the way it curled in your mouth. For a moment, you had thought the librarian assistant knew about your name; you were born Michelle Jones Jr. Your mother was the first Michelle and you were named after her, some sort of purposeful feminism there that you think missed by a long shot. MJ – not for Michelle Jr, but for Michelle Jones.

It sounds right.

* * *

Your mother is Michelle Jones – why, yes, the well-known businesswoman working in Australia. The one that travelled a lot when you were younger, and then one day never came home.

“That’s hardly fair,” your father says to you, once. All these years later, still stuck in America with two children and a wife across the ocean, and he’s still defending her. He’s justifying it with _love_, but you’re thirteen years old and have been cooking your own dinner since you were nine. “She’s always been a career-minded woman. She said so, even when she had the two of you.”

You press your lips together. It’s a Saturday morning and he’s leaving for work and the house is very, very quiet.

It’s always _been_ quiet, of course. You like being left alone, you always have, but sometimes you wonder if it’s a defence mechanism that you built for yourself. Maybe you like being left alone because that’s what has happened to you your whole life. Photographic memory is kind of a bitch, with things like this. Because there are things that you never really quite forget, no matter how much you would like to. It would’ve hurt a lot less if you didn’t remember your mother sitting you on her lap as she worked, letting your greedy eyes try to swallow all the information set out in front of you.

“Not that one, baby,” she’d say when your chubby hands grabbed at a piece of paper. You were five years old and wanted to see more. She switched the paper out for another one, one without diagrams but more words. You try to read it, stumbling over the legal jargon. “See, I knew you’d be like me.”

She taught you to read too, properly. She encouraged learning and wanting to know more, so when you asked questions, she answered each one. Sometimes distractedly, with an eye on her laptop, but sometimes she’d put her work down to explain things, in detail.

You want to drown these memories sometimes, to make it easier to resent the woman who left you before you hit your teenage years. She could be this nameless thing, who you didn’t remember much of, and it wouldn’t suck as much – after all, what would you be missing out on? But your mother had been your mother for those first six years of your life. You had loved her with the absent-minded love one has for the woman who looks after them, and you hadn’t realised it until she never came back.

“We could move with you,” you heard your father say down the phone, maybe a little desperately. She was just supposed to be on another work trip.

“I don’t think it’s best for the kids to come over here, I’ve got so much to do.” Her voice is strong, unwavering, firm – the way it always is. Your father’s knuckles are white as he clutches the phone. You feel a prod at your shoulder and you jump, backing away from the edge of the kitchen where you were peeking in. Elias, your older brother, shakes his head and ushers you towards your room.

You think something like your mother leaving should be more monumental. Because all that happens is – you all move on. The next morning, your father goes to work before you wake up, like normal. Elias is oversleeping, even though he’s got school, like normal. You eat breakfast alone and you walk to school alone, like normal.

You think if you had friends, you’d have told them about it. But no one really pays attention to you that day (like normal) so you turn back to your books instead.

You see Elias more than you see your father, but he’s a sixteen-year-old boy by then and doesn’t really hang around home that much. When you’re older, in retrospect, you wonder if it’s because of the same reason _you_ avoided being at home – home is an odd name to call something no one really feels comfortable in. There’s a difference between a calm silence and an unsettling silence – the difference is the loneliness. You can’t be the only one that’s feeling it, in this empty home where it feels unlived. There’s never much food in the fridge or cupboards. You don’t think your television has ever been switched on in the living room. Elias is never home much, and you don’t know where he goes; probably his friends’, or just hanging around like teenage boys do. Still, you see him more than you see your father, who goes out to work before anyone wakes and doesn’t return until near midnight. Sometimes, you could hear him come through the front door when you’re lying in bed, a torch on so you can read under the covers. Sometimes, he doesn’t come home at all that day.

If you miss your mother for being a mother by then, you miss your father who just gave up. If you loved your mother in the way you didn’t realise it had to be a conscious thing, you loved your father because he tried. Your mother taught you to read, to speak, to walk, all the basic motor functions, but your father taught you the humour of puns and the things you learnt to appreciate – a good heart, how to smile when you’re not feeling your best, a good music taste. He taught you all the little things.

He also taught you what a silly thing love was. At seventeen, you’re not going to go as far as to say love doesn’t exist – but love, to you, is a chemical reaction that makes people do very, very stupid things. Your father was hopelessly devoted to the love he had for your mother, and he gave up on his two children when she left. He was so in love with your mother that he _left_ his two children, aged fifteen and twenty-five, back in America so he could go be with your mother in another continent.

You couldn’t quite understand love, after that. Because you loved your mother and you loved your father in that way children do, with everything in them, nothing held back. You were too young to know when to hold back. When you told them you loved them, you meant it.

They still left.

Elias moves out at eighteen, because he can, and he moves back at twenty-four, because he has to. He gets accepted into college and doesn’t tell anyone for three weeks, because there’s no one at home to tell. You’re almost eight years old and sitting cross-legged at the counter, eating your cereal, when he comes in.

“Has Dad been home?”

You shake your head, turn another page of the book you’re reading. You think he’ll leave it at that, because that’s the extent to how your interactions with each other go.

“I got into Boston College,” he says, and you pause, spoon hovering over your bowl. He’s looking inside a cupboard. “They sent me a letter three weeks ago.”

“Congrats?” you say, unsure.

He nods and turns around. “I’m going to take it. Might as well get out of here.”

You turn the page of your book, shoving the spoon in your mouth. “Have fun.”

You don’t really see him for four years. He calls every few weeks, which becomes more closer to every few months, and says in that first year that it’s difficult and too much hassle to come home often. You see him a handful of times whilst he’s at college, only ever on the few days he makes a trip back for, but mostly almost forget you have a brother.

It’s not like much has changed with him away, anyway. The house is no less empty. Your father’s work schedule doesn’t change. You still use the library as your safe space until it closes. School is still a lonely place, but mostly because you scare people away with bared teeth and unconcealed sarcasm. You have a deep distrust in people. It’s hard getting close to people, when those people have always let you down.

Getting into Midtown School of Science and Technology was supposed to go a little better for you. If your abrasiveness didn’t scare people off in middle school, the others avoided you because you were a little… Off. You didn’t like to sit around and hang out with them. You never really participated in any conversations. You scored perfect marks in every test and you finished about three books a day. Originally, you’d chalked your strangeness up to being academically inclined, but maybe you’re just weird. Mostly, you refuse to conform to whatever’s expected of you, and being unapologetically yourself is something you work hard at, so. You kind of liked that.

The summer before you’re supposed to start high school, your brother moves back in. He’d spent the last four years in Boston, and then spent another two years looking for work. When he couldn’t find any, he moves back to Queens and it’s the wake-up call your father apparently needs, because two weeks later, he decides he’s going to Australia to join your mother.

“My job is offering me the opportunity to switch to be the American spokesperson for the Australian branches,” he explains. “And now that Elias is home, and Michelle’s going to be settled in that STEM school, it’s kind of the perfect time.”

You beg to differ, but you just nod. Elias looks like he’s got the yelling about this covered, anyway.

The yelling doesn’t really matter, because your father still leaves, and Elias is the one who’s applying for a mismatch of jobs around the area. Your mother’s been sending money all these years, you know, and your father assures he’s going to do the same before he goes, but Elias is restless and in charge of a fourteen-year-old, so he goes to look for jobs anyway. He takes an accounting job from 9-5 and another at the local supermarket in the evenings and nights. There’s a split-second where it looks like he’s going to try and justify himself to you, but this is a brother you don’t really know, a brother you haven’t really seen for years. If he’s never home, it doesn’t make much difference to you, not really. You flit your eyes away when he makes eye contact and go to your room.

On the first day at Midtown, you don’t really expect there to be a send-off, so it’s no use getting disappointed when you go into the kitchen and there’s no one there. You shove two extra books inside your backpack because you’re not sure what to expect and having something to read is always better than nothing. When you lock the front door behind you, you’re already mentally preparing yourself.

It’s different. This high school is different; not worse, not better, you haven’t really decided yet. All the kids here are smart too. You’re glad there’s not a conjoining middle school, because everyone is starting their first day as well. A girl called Cindy sits next to you in your English class and doesn’t really stop talking, but you give her a blank look and it doesn’t even scare her away. (You don’t think she really notices.)

Flash Thompson is kind of a dick, but you suppose every school has one of them. He’s not a typical bully either – in what you call a _nerd_ school now, there’s bound to be the few that are uncomfortable with the label. Overcompensating for something. It’s simple human analysis and psychology; you’ve read William James’ books, you know what you’re talking about. You like to call yourself an all-rounder, but, really, it’s the vast range of books you read for fun.

Then again, psychology’s not _really_ your thing. People are tricky and complicated, and you decided a long time ago that it was more time that it’s worth. Observing was your thing, because you like to think about things. Trying to figure out humans was an absent-minded constant thought, but it had never had importance enough to thrust into the forefront of your mind.

And then Peter Parker turns all that to shit, because of _course_ he does.

At first, it’s just _curiosity_. Flash calls him Penis Parker from the beginning of freshman year, because Peter’s the type of kid that look easy to pick on. He’s smaller than average (not that Flash has any leg to stand on there), scrawny and has both an earnest face and a more earnest voice. He says _thank you _to teachers after lessons and holds doors for everyone and joins marching band, robotics club _and_ academic decathlon. When someone makes fun of him, it seems to bounce off and he _smiles_.

And yet, he still helps Flash with a practical in lab class, even though Flash tripped him on the way to class only half an hour earlier.

There’s no way someone is just that _nice_; niceness doesn’t roll off from you easily, but you’re not a stranger to it. You make an _active_ effort to not be nice. It’s a persona, it’s an _aesthetic_. When you’re nice, people take advantage of you, and you’re not going to be someone’s plaything to push around.

But Peter’s _nice_ anyway.

Observing humans becomes more observing Peter, but still in that distracted way without really focusing. You notice a lot of things, he’s not _special_. Mr Hapgood’s puzzles were always from the newspaper the day before, half a book at least could be read during lunch, Peter Parker is nice.

At the end of freshman year, Peter misses a week of school, and you’re not the only who notices this time. It’s on the news and it spreads around school: Peter’s uncle Ben had been murdered and Peter watched him die.

In your journal the day you find out, you write: _Life is seldom kind to the good ones_.

Peter misses school for a week, but then he comes back. Personally, you don’t think a week of mourning is nearly enough, but you don’t know Peter, not really, it’s not your place at all. Once, you bump into him in a hallway, a couple days after he’s returned to school. You’ve long since become an expert in the art of reading whilst walking, but he’s got a faraway look in his eyes, like he’s thinking of something else and not here, and the next thing you know, your book’s clattering out of your hands onto the floor.

“Sorry!” he says immediately, scooping up your book and offering it back to you.

“You should watch where you’re going,” you say, mostly because it’s true. Also, because sometimes, you’re a bit of a dick.

“You’re the one who’s reading whilst walking.” It doesn’t sound accusatory from him, only confused.

“_You_ should watch where you’re going,” you repeat, and then sidestep around him. His niceness only makes you feel bad slightly, but you don’t want to spend longer talking to anyone than necessary. You’re walking away when you pause, mid-step. You turn around. “Hey, Peter.”

He looks back, surprised.

You’re quite sure he doesn’t want any more apologies and pity words after the last few days of getting that exact thing, but losing people is still awful. Your parents aren’t dead, but you lost them a long time ago. “Sorry this all sucks for you right now.”

* * *

Three months after Peter’s uncle dies, Spiderman begins swinging around Queens.

You’re not really one to jump to conclusions, without solid evidence, but luckily for you, observing Peter Parker is an old habit that doesn’t really take much effort.

Not that it’s at the forefront of your mind. You’ve got shit to do. Holidays usually suck, because it means you’re forced to be at home, but summer holidays _especially_ suck, because that’s at least ten weeks of not having school as a distraction. And hanging around at home isn’t something you like to do, so it’s an accumulation of finding more events like protesting to attend and going back to haunt your local library and coffee shops and sitting in parks for most of the day. Peter Parker doesn’t even _make_ your priority list. You’ve got documentaries to binge-watch and a stack of books to read and you’re trying to teach yourself a little Russian.

Except when school rolls back around again for your sophomore year, you migrate from your empty lunch table to the end of Peter and Ned’s. It’s not a big _deal_; you’ve been sitting by yourself and reading for the last year, so now you’re just sitting by yourself and reading with two other kids talking at the other end. At this point, their conversations are white noise, but sometimes they’ll say something interesting that you file away for another time.

(“Because I don’t have any friends.”

Okay, so maybe, just maybe, it’d be kind of cool to be friends with them. Peter wears funny science puns on his shirts that you absolutely cannot let anyone know you laugh about, and Ned’s opinions on Star Wars are always right and valid, and sometimes when they get excited about things, you kind of want to join the discussion.

But you’ve also never had friends, and you don’t really know how to step over that barrier. Lightly insulting them is a lot easier than the idea of letting them know you want to be friends with them. Thinking about it makes you cringe.

So you’re just going to skate along the outskirts and be weird, which. Yeah. That’s pretty much your brand at this point.)

After you notice Peter quits marching band and robotics lab, you’re surprised when he still keeps coming to Decathlon practice, albeit late and distracted. Even when he _doesn’t_ turn up, he doesn’t quit. Observing Peter is getting more confusing and entertaining by the minute, even when he stumbles over his tongue with excuses and tries to flirt poorly with Liz.

Not that you blame him. You’re kind of a little in love with Liz, too. _Everyone’s_ in love with Liz. She makes an active effort to try to talk to everybody, even you, when you’re awkwardly on the edges of Decathlon practice. When the DC trip rolls around, she goes out of her way to invite you to join them for swimming the night before, which does _not_ make you feel fuzzy inside – you’re just not used to people including you. You’re weird, but you’re not entirely _embarrassing_, so you don’t really choke on your own words like Peter does, but. You get it. Liz is the perfect person to make anyone lose their cool.

* * *

The thing about Coach Wilson is that the man’s just _tired_. He teaches physical education to a school of STEM kids – like, you get it. The job sounds awful to you, but that’s because you both hate exercise and teaching, so whatever.

So maybe you feel a tiny bit bad in wearing him down, but you’re not going to participate in organised group sport activities. Exercise _sucks_. Maybe the man’s tired, but that’s not _your_ fault.

Throughout freshman year, you put the most minimal effort in physical education classes as you can. Track running makes you fake five broken bones and two sprained ankles over the course of the year (you’re quite proud of it actually). Coach believes at least two of those, because you can do better than half-assing it, but the third time you claim you twisted your ankle, he gives you an unimpressed look.

So you change tactics.

Halfway through your rant about how this is actually a violation of human rights and, you know _what_, Coach, it’s _sexist_ that you make the boys do different activities, Coach tells you to go sit on the bleachers and _stop talking_.

By the time sophomore year hits, you’ve settled into an arrangement. You don’t really participate in physical education classes, but you’ve got to at least fake it a little. You can read as much as you want, as long as you _don’t_ speak to Coach and that means_ I don’t want to hear your voice on another rant, alright? I’m tired. Let me do my job in peace._

Which – fair.

Pretending to bench press _Of Human Bondage _is more satisfying than ever.

You kind of feel bad for Coach again when you follow Peter to his detention and it’s his turn to oversee. You and Coach’s agreement is to avoid each other. Going to Peter’s detention when you don’t have your own defeats the agreement there.

Still, this isn’t _special_. You go to detentions that you don’t have all the time. Alright, maybe not _all_ the time, but Peter’s is hardly the first one you’ve sat in. You don’t like being at home, so you find things to do that mean you don’t have to go back yet. Sometimes it’s sitting in the library, sometimes it’s hanging out in the art rooms because you like the smell of paint, sometimes it’s sitting in detentions you didn’t receive.

You’re still of a bit of an asshole, though. It’s amusing to see the look on Coach’s face when you show him your sketch.

* * *

The Decathlon trip to DC is a whirlwind of emotions you don’t normally feel.

Okay, here’s the truth: you join Decathlon because their after-school practice is on a Wednesday, which is coincidentally the day the library closes early. You didn’t want to come home, so you join the club, and, like. It’s pretty cool. Random trivia facts and studying for more knowledge? Surrounded by others who want to be a nerd as much as you do? You like that, and yeah, you skirt around the edges of the team, but it’s nice to be a part of something.

And then you win the last point in sudden death, which – It feels awesome. Almost as good as everyone on your team cheering and hugging you, and you wouldn’t normally let them do that, but you’re, like. _Really_ happy. You’re smiling and it’s getting hard to pretend you don’t give a shit.

When they go up the Washington Monument, you duck out because, yeah, it was built by slaves – but also, you kind of wanted a breather. Being a part of team was great, but it’s also overwhelming and you’re not used to it, and you wanted to retreat back into what you are more comfortable with, which is reading a book by yourself. You wanted a relaxing moment to yourself.

And that, of course, means they’re all trapped inside the building when things go wrong, because nothing in your life seems to be catching a break (it’s actually nothing in _Peter’s_ life that can catch a break, you learn later, you’re just the one who can’t untangle yourself from him at all).

(Ha. Untangle. Fucking Peter and his puns.)

It also means that Peter makes the most awful mistake to interact with you for more than a second as Spiderman, meaning of _course_ you know it’s him. You’re an expert in observing all things Peter Parker now, even if you don’t want to admit it, and from his nervous energy, the bounding on the balls of his feat and the dead giveaway that is his high-pitched voice – any minor suspicions you had about the timing of Spiderman’s appearance at the end of freshman year is confirmed in the moment he says “_What?_” and then tries to lower his voice to tell you not to worry.

Everything’s kind of blowing your mind right now. There’s too much going on. Spiderman – who is probably Peter Parker – is swinging from the top of a very tall building, so high that it’s making you _sick_ just thinking about it, in an attempt to save your teammates who are trapped inside, which you are surprisingly, startlingly _worried_ about. You’re not even going to look at that fucking helicopter that is threatening to shoot Spiderman – _Peter_ – down.

Before this, you’d just assumed the team were your acquaintances – you don’t _have_ friends, you told Ned and Peter earlier that year. The team were people you saw every practice and that was kind of it; you didn’t really talk to any of them individually outside of the practices, you didn’t sit with them at lunch, you turned up at Liz’s party only because she asked you to come and she’s really, _really_ pretty. You don’t think they consider you as friends either, which is fine, except you’re absolutely terrified for them whilst they’re stuck hundreds of feet in the air and you’ve got two feet safely on the ground.

(It’s what you would’ve told your parents or your brother, had anyone come to pick you up when you return to Queens. You step off that bus and everyone’s parents are rushing forward to embrace their child, you can see on their faces that they’ve all been sick with nerves. For a stupid second, you used your tall height to look over their heads, looking for someone that might have come and picked you up. There’s no reason to be disappointed when your brother’s not there, because he didn’t even _know_ you were going on this trip and you’ve been getting yourself to and from places for a very, very long time now. Whatever. It’s whatever.

You send a text to your brother anyway because Mr Harrington won’t let you go without a guardian this time – you suppose having a bunch of kids nearly die under his watch does that. You wait, leaning against the bus, but you know Elias has got a shift at the supermarket today so he’s not going to be able to check his phone until his shift is over.

Peter’s aunt stops next to you when they’re about to walk by and asks if you’re all right, because she looks exactly like the type of person to do that. When you say you’re just waiting for your brother to finish his night shift, she offers a lift and won’t take no for an answer. After letting Mr Harrington know that she’s dropping you home, you find yourself in her car, desperately trying not to make eye contact with Peter. Your fingers are itching to read your book, but you know it’s rude and there’s something about Peter’s Aunt May that makes you _not_ want to be rude at all. So you sit in silence and answer her abundance of chatty questions about your life and thank her twice before she pulls up outside your place. You don’t think you say a word to Peter the entire time, once. The entire thing is embarrassing and offers too much into a look into your home life, and also. You’re still thinking about the fact that he’s probably, most likely, Spiderman.)

It’s kind of odd, the way you begin to care about these people, this group of nerd kids. Because they hugged and cheered for you when you won that winning point for them. Because they clapped and seemed genuinely happy when you get appointed the captain of the team (you’re not even a junior yet, how _awesome_ is that?). Because you felt your heart hammering in your chest when they almost died that day in DC. Because they talk to you like they actually care, and is this what having friends feel like? It’s a good feeling. It’s strange and overwhelming, but it’s a really good feeling. It feels like admittance, the kind that you’ve always been terrified of, when you say you didn’t have any friends before, but they can call you MJ.

That’s the type of vulnerability you’ve been trying to shed yourself for a long time. There’s more than one way to say _I love you_, to say _I care_. “One more bedtime story,” to your mother meant nothing when she left. “You’re the funniest person I know,” to your father meant nothing when he left. “My friends call me MJ,” is saying _I trust you all with this. Please don’t take that away._

The thing is. The thing is it also means that it’s becoming harder to ignore this _thing_ you’re forming for Peter Parker. Because you’re friends after this; you sit opposite him and Ned at lunch, and he actually responds to your texts regularly now, and you go and hang around with the two of them every Saturday. Observing him from afar is one thing, when it didn’t really _matter_, because he was a background figure in your life. Being his friend, though, is easy and welcoming and, also, you hate feelings so much. Have you mentioned that? You want to stab the feelings and lie in your room by yourself and not think about anything.

It sure as hell would be better than having to think about how you want to kiss Peter’s stupid face.

It really doesn’t help that Spiderman is all over the news these days, because you know now, you know, you know. (At least, you think you know. You’re like 95% sure. 90%. 80%. 75%, because you saw him drop his food down his front the other day during lunch.)

Spiderman is kind of cool, and Peter is the biggest nerd you can think of – it’s annoying that he’s endearing, all the same. He trips over his tongue and his excuses _always_ suck and he’s late to Decathlon practice _all_ the time, which last year was a mild inconvenience, but now you’re Captain and it just _pisses_ you off. At least he doesn’t skip the practices entirely as often as he did last year, but still, he’s effortlessly smart and you need him on the team. If you don’t win Nationals because of this, you’re going to _kill_ him.

You force him to do make-up sessions for every practice he misses, and they usually end up with the two of you in the library or a coffee shop or that one time you’re cross-legged on his bedroom floor, throwing your flashcards at him in frustration. Ned is almost always there, because the three of you are _friends_ now, but sometimes he’s busy or has his own things he needs to do, and those are the times when sometimes Peter looks at you and you wonder if maybe, just maybe, there’s something there.

Which is, like. Ridiculous. Because you’ve seen Peter have a crush on someone, all embarrassing as he stared at Liz for the better part of sophomore year, and it’s decidedly _not_ the way he acts around you.

It’s what you think for a long time anyway, and something that’s on the back of your mind, even once the Europe trip happens and you kind of know about his thing for you. It takes you a while to indulge in the ego boost that he likes you, but subtlety is something Peter doesn’t do very well at all. He’s as rude as Peter can physically be to Brad (which, granted, isn’t very rude, but he still treats _Flash_ better than Brad, which is weird) and you catch him staring at you too many times for it to be normal (which you know, because you’re always staring at him too). Every conversation he has with you had become increasingly more nervous as he trips over his words, and he says you look _pretty_ in that dress, which shouldn’t make something in your chest swell up but absolutely does.

You think he actually maybe does like you, and that’s an odd feeling in itself, because you don’t think you’ve ever been _liked_ before.

So you kind of know, but there’s always going to be that part of your brain that doesn’t quite believe it. Like the Spiderman thing. You’re an observer, and logically these things point to one conclusion – Peter is Spiderman. Peter likes you. But both facts are statements that don’t really make sense, so it’s kind of a confusing time overall.

Because Peter himself is just confusing. He says he wants to sit next to you and then he rushes off (for Spiderman duties, you find out, but _still_). His crush on Liz is completely different to his crush on you, and, yeah. So maybe you don’t really believe that he _really_ does like you. Like – you know you’re awesome. You’re smart and, fine, you don’t wear make-up or care too much about what you look like (because that’s all a _construct_), but you know you’re not bad looking either. You don’t take any shit. Anyone interested in you would be _lucky_ to have you, you’re confident in yourself to know that, but you also aren’t confident enough in the fact that _Peter_ really likes you. Well, no one’s really liked you like that, so how can you expect someone like Peter to?

When he gives you the chance, on that bridge, to admit your feelings, you bail out. Fear snakes it way out of nowhere, from somewhere deep inside you, and then grabs on, so you lie. What if you admit it and something goes wrong? That you’ve been reading the signs wrong the entire time? Peter’s your friend, one of your closest friends now. You can’t lose that. And Ned will go wherever Peter goes, no matter how close he is to you these days, and you’re not – you _won’t_ let that all go.

Being a teenager sucks and you hate that you’re drawn into all of this feelings business, the kind that you didn’t want to get involved in your whole life, and here you are. Whatever, one thing at a time. This Spiderman reveal thing is enough to take up space in your head for the time being (and you’re _not_ thinking about Peter’s abs, back in the hotel room as he changed into his suit, nope, that would be counter-productive and you’re not giving yourself over to teenage hormones).

Except. Except Peter nearly dies, and so do you, but you can’t really think about the fact a drone was only feet from killing you right now. What you _can_ think about is that Peter is suddenly standing in front of you, fresh from a fight and seconds away from his own death, and there’s so much feeling inside you right now, you couldn’t name any of it if you tried.

Kissing him surprises him, but it mostly surprises you. He’s rambling about the necklace he got you and you’re looking at him. You’re always looking at him, and he nearly _died_, so fuck that fear inside you. You just really, really want to kiss him. So you do. And you’re glad you did, even though it’s awkward and brief and everything a first kiss should be.

“I don’t really have much luck in getting close to people,” you say, because you’re thinking about your mother, your father, those lonely sixteen years of your life where you had no friends. You didn’t want friends, fine, you did your very best to scare them away – because you’re not going to be _fake_ and sit around at sleepovers, talking about things you don’t care about, just so you had a partner to pair up with in class. You didn’t want friends, but no one really wanted to be your friend either, and – like, you get it, you’re weird. You’re not going to change that. You _like_ that about yourself. But other kids don’t, so you’ve never gotten close to anyone because you didn’t want to, but also because no one ever really wanted to either. You take a deep breath.

“So, I lied. I wasn’t watching you because I thought you were Spiderman.”

It’s honest and it’s raw, and these are moments that you promised you would never let yourself have, those clichés in the movies, but you nearly _died_. Peter, the stupid, brilliant boy, nearly _died_, and he’s standing in front of you, bruised and broken. And he doesn’t know that you like him. How could you _not_ like him? He deserves to know, even if it’s taking every bit of everything inside you to admit it.

You kind of don’t want to look at him, but you also can’t _stop_ looking at him, so you look down at the necklace he bought you. He’s saying he’s sorry it’s broken, but all you can think about is how he went out to go get you a special necklace in the shape of your favourite flower, which he seems to _know_ is because it’s the same name as the murder. It’s just a stupid, weird fact, but he knows it because maybe he’s been watching too, and. And you just really, really like him.

Which is why it’s _good_ he finally says that he really likes you next, because you just bared your soul to him just now and hearing the verbal confirmation is _nice_, if not needed. And you say it back, because he’s grinning at you, even though he’s got blood on his mouth and he’s favouring one foot because you’re pretty sure the other is broken.

When he kisses you, it’s more of a proper kiss than the first time around, and you realise in that half-second that you could spend a long time doing this with Peter Parker.

* * *

When Peter uses his webs to swing you around for the first time, you scream yourself hoarse (you won’t admit it, even though it’s directly into his ear, when not muffled into his shoulder) and you say _never again_.

You say _never again_, but of course you do, because you kind of think you’re falling in love with this boy, and it’s kind of hard to say no to a boy you’re falling in love with.

Yeah, you know love is just a chemical reaction that makes people do stupid things, but it also makes you do really lovely things for Peter too. He makes you smile more. He brings you tea in the mornings and walks you home and sits through all the murder documentaries that you like watching, even though you _know_ he’s terrified of them. He says you’re pretty like once a day, which makes you blush for _no_ reason, but he also says you’re brilliant and smart and one of his favourite people ever, which is tons better.

Dating Peter turns out being a lot like being friends with Peter, except he doesn’t look away when you catch him staring and you kiss a lot more. Peter’s your first kiss and you don’t really have any shame in admitting that, at seventeen. You kept to yourself for years. You weren’t _interested_ in anyone else for years. Kissing Peter is something you think you quickly become very, very good at, which is great, because you kind of always want to be kissing him these days. You can also hang around together all the time without feeling you need to have some sort of excuse to do so, because you’re _dating_ and that’s an excuse enough. It’s awesome. It’s really, really awesome, even with all the bad stuff – being seventeen and both stupid with feelings, Peter being Spiderman, all those small issues that each of you have within yourself that sometimes gets dragged into the light. None of that makes you want to give Peter up, though.

* * *

“There was a boy here this morning,” Elias says, no preamble, and you freeze.

“I know you’re a boy,” you say. Because you’re a dick, you’ll always be a little bit of a dick.

He gives you a look. “I saw him come out of your bedroom this morning, he didn’t see me.”

The kettle clicks as it finishes boiling, so you move towards it, saying casually, “That’s my boyfriend, Peter.” It’s the first time he’s been to your place. You always insist on everywhere but your own place, but he was out being Spiderman late last night and he wanted to see you after. What’s important is that he already knows about your distaste for being at home, because you _told_ him. Yeah, that’s right – you, MJ, trust him enough to tell him about this. Who knew you could find it in you to trust? But it’s Peter we’re talking about, it’s _Peter_.

There’s a silence as you’re pouring your tea, and when you turn around, Elias is looking at you strangely.

“What?” you say, a little self-conscious.

He shrugs. “He’s cute. Didn’t think he’s your type.”

That makes you scoff, because you and Elias really _don’t_ have these types of conversations. You’re still a little surprised he even mentioned it. “You don’t know my _type_.”

“No, I don’t,” he agrees. You take a sip of your tea, pull a face at the heat. With a turn on your heel towards your room, you think this conversation is painfully _over_, but he stops you. “I’m thinking of moving.”

That has you freeze in your step again. You wrap your hands tighter around your mug, seeking out the warmth. “Oh?”

“Yeah, Noah and I have been talking about it.”

“Who’s _Noah_?”

“_My_ boyfriend,” Elias says, and then laughs at your eyebrows that jump higher on your forehead.

“I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”

“I didn’t know _you_ had a boyfriend,” he throws back. “We don’t – we don’t really talk much, huh?” It’s not a real question, so you don’t say anything, and he continues. “We’ve been together five years.”

“_Christ_,” you say.

He grins. “I was going to move out anyway, before Dad left. We were talking and we think we should still do it.”

“Right.” You blink, and you don’t know _why_ you can feel your eyes prickling with what alarmingly feels like tears. You haven’t cried in years. With everything that’s happened when you were younger, and then your Dad leaving too, and the whole thing with Peter and his nearly dying and his swinging around the city, you hadn’t cried. Emotions were stupid. Emotions were _so_ fucking stupid, because you and Elias aren’t even close so it shouldn’t hurt that he wants to leave and move in with someone he’s spent five years building a life with.

“We’re going to start apartment-hunting soon. I was going to invite you to come along to see if you like the room you’re going to be in, but I don’t know if you’re too busy with all the Decathlon stuff.”

Wait.

What?

Elias must see the look on your face, because he adds, offended, “Did you think I meant I was going to leave you here by yourself? I’m supposed to be looking after you. Of course you’re coming with me.”

“I was just surprised you knew that I did Decathlon,” you lie, and you’re kind of choking on the words. Your eyes are still wet.

He shakes his head. “Michelle, this place sucks. Like. Aesthetically, it’s a nice place, whatever, it’s functional and nice. But it _sucks_. It feels empty and lonely and I know neither of us like hanging out here. Like, fuck Mum and Dad for that. So why don’t we just move?”

There’s a long silence, one you can’t bring yourself to break. This is the first time you can remember having a conversation with your brother that’s longer than five minutes. Your throat is all closed up and you’re blinking rapidly and your hands around your mug are shaking badly, but you don’t say anything for a long time.

“MJ,” you say finally.

“What?”

“You called me Michelle, but you can call me MJ. I like being called MJ better.”

“All right, MJ.”

“And I’d like to come look at apartments with you, when the time comes.” Your heart is swelling, but at least the tears are gone and you can breathe. “And meet Noah, if I’m going to be living with him.”

“We can do dinner?” Elias offers awkwardly, and you try and think about the last time you remember eating dinner with him. You can’t.

You take a deep breath. “Dinner works.”

“And I can meet Peter?”

“_Woah_, one thing at a time here. You are so _not_ meeting Peter yet.”

“Is it not serious?”

You laugh, because that’s exactly what it says. Peter’s really one of the only sure things you know in your life, which is kind of sad. You’re in love with him though, so you just have to get over the grossness there.

Elias doesn’t really know the real reason you’re laughing, but he laughs with you anyway. It’s a nice feeling. One of those warm ones that start in your chest and warm you up, inside to out. Not quite the same warmth you get when Peter looks at you, but a new one, a different one. You think you could get used to it.

“I have a book to finish,” you say, gesturing to your room with the mug.

“Yeah, go ahead. I’m going to talk to Noah and then I’ll let you know about dinner, MJ."

You’ve already turned away, so he can’t really see you smile into their lip of your mug. You like the way MJ sounds in your own mouth, from Peter when he’s looking at you in awe, from Ned over the lunch table, from the other members of the Decathlon team as they listen to you run drills. From your brother now. Moving forwards, not back. You spent the last seventeen years of your life with no one but yourself, so it’s kind of nice, just maybe, that things are changing.


End file.
